Disneytalia
by PitFTW
Summary: A collection of Disney songfics, starring our favorite countries! Requests welcomed. Current: Make a Man Out of You- Mulan. Prussia must train the young colony know as America for the Revolutionary War. But with the young boy still wracked with guilt, can our favorite awesome country make a man out of him before Britain crushes him?
1. Let it Go

Disneytalia: Let it Go

**A/N: So… haven't seen much Disneytalia around here. And if there is indeed a lot of it, then I guess I've just been blind this whole time. Either way! Welcome to a collection of songfic oneshots inspired by numerous Disney songs! I do hope that you all enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: PitFTW holds no claim to owning either Disney or Hetalia. In fact, she could probably take over the world with such a combination under her control.**

**This collection of oneshots shall be updated sparingly as demand and inspiration strike me. I will be happy to take requests from readers of Disneysongs, any historical event, and any AU. **

**Pairings: USUK, if you squint**

* * *

His first boss had warned him, warned his people, that only through neutrality could he survive. They were a nation newly born and bred, coming fresh from The Revolution at the time, and just about ready to get involved in European affairs, issues that only big, strong nations dealt with. He had tried his best to honor President Washington's wishes, but his people- the upper classes especially- called upon him, begged him, to allow them to fight.

The result was the War of 1812.

And now they, his people, were at it again. There was a war in Europe, and they claimed that something needed to be done. The combined efforts of the British Empire, France, and Russia were not enough. They were going up against Germany, the Austro-Hungary and Ottoman Empires, and Bulgaria. No matter how strong those nations were, no matter how much he believed that they could pull through this war, his rich cried out. Let us defy Washington's words again, they said, the War of 1812 is nothing.

"If we don't do something now, this war shall encompass the whole world!" the Senator argued, walking alongside his brisk pace as he half-ran through the halls of the White House. Alfred F. Jones, the representation of the United States of America, scowled at him and increased his pace, hoping to shake the fat man off. "People will be killed!"

"George Washington himself said that getting ourselves involved in European affairs will only bring ruin," America growled, uncharacteristically serious. On a normal day, he would be found running around, heckling White House staff and in general showing off his childish nature, with his loud laughter ringing through the halls. But now, in the midst of war, in the midst of his own problems at home, he was enraged. "You were not there during 1812. You don't understand how much we lost. You don't understand how disappointed Washington would be in us if he ever found out that we went against his word…"

"Mr. America, you must understand, this is for the best!" the man said angrily. "We need to go to war! The British Empire has already blockaded Germany, driving our cotton prices down-"

"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR DAMN COTTON!" America roared, raising his fist to slam that Senator through a wall. The other man's shocked face stopped him, shaking the young nation down to his very core. He lowered his fist, his entire body trembling, his knees weak. His legs collapsed underneath him, and it was only with the support of his companion that he didn't hit the floor.

Eyes the color of the sky looked outside, to the White House gardens, where he could see President Wilson sitting on a stone bench. The gardens were beautiful this time of year, with the trees at their greenest and the flowers in full bloom. The sun shone on his boss' face, emphasizing the many lines that had developed since the start of the war, making the man who led the United States of America seem older, frailer, than when he was when he was sworn in with his hand upon a Bible. America panted a little as he got to his feet, helped by the Senator, who opened his mouth once again to argue, only to be silenced by a wave of America's hand.

"The sun shines gold on my nation today, never a cloud to be seen," America said quietly, almost singing it as he walked to the window. He stared at his reflection, suit, glasses and all, and sighed. That stubborn cowlick of his, Nantucket, stood at attention as usual. "A country of isolation, and it looks like I'm its King."

The Senator placed a hand on his nation's shoulder. "People are calling, like a swirling storm outside. Couldn't stop it, no, heaven knows we've tried."

America's hand curled into a fist. He watched as another Senator entered the garden and walked towards the President. He pressed said fist to the window, blue eyes glaring, twitching, fighting desperately against tears beginning to build up behind Texas. He truly was singing to himself now, a mantra that he had repeated for years, ever since he left England sobbing on the battlefield. "Don't let them in, don't let them see. Be the hero you always have to be. Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know."

The man behind him sighed. "Son, now they know. Let it go, let it go. You can't hold back anymore."

"Let it go, let it go?" America demanded, glaring at him. He wrenched his shoulder away from the Senator's grip and turned on his heel, once again heading for his guest room in the White House. "Turn away and slam the door! I don't care what they say, let the war rage on! Europe never bothered me anyways!"

_It's funny how some distance makes everything seem so small_, America thought as he walked past a large map of the world. Indeed, the United States of America stood proud, whereas all of Europe and Asia seemed so tiny in comparison. He paused briefly to admire it, remembering how much he feared these nations back when he was only a colony. Well, he certainly showed them, he certainly showed them what he was capable of. Only he had ever left England sobbing on a battlefield, only he could ever break an empire in such a way. _And the fears that once controlled me can't get to me at all! _

"It's time to see what you can do!" the Senator said as he caught up. "To test the limits and break through!" America glared at him and turned on his heel to continue walking.

It was starting again. That feeling that he was under control. He had not felt such a thing since England began levying those hefty taxes on him to pay for the French-Indian war. It wasn't his fault that the island nation couldn't keep his grubby hands off France. And it wasn't his problem that England had drained his treasury so much that he would turn to taxing his younger brother. That was why America broke away; to be seen as an equal in not just England's eyes, but those of the other nations of the world.

_"No right, no wrong, no rules for me,"_ America had said on the day he announced his breaking away. _"I'm free!" _

Though he thought the conversation was over, though he thought he had won, the man persisted. He continued to follow America down the hallway, easily keeping up with the enraged nation's footfalls, despite his large girth. The gleam of determination in this man's eye would have truly been admirable, if America was not so against what he wanted to do. America glared at him, but despite his rage, he couldn't raise a fist against him. He was never one to punish his citizens.

"Let it go, let it go!" the Senator continued. They were nearing America's room now, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he lost his chance with his nation. "You're the one with the wind and sky!"

America entered his room and was immediately faced with a portrait of him and England in younger, happier days. Anger burned within him. Those damn war-mongers placed it here, he knew it. They were trying to break him, trying to get him to relent. He clenched his fists, tears threatening to fall. England was in trouble. England needed his help. England could not fight this world war without him. But America would never fall, no! He had to let his anger towards England go, before he broke his vow to Washington again!

"Let it go!" he whirled on the Senator, hand on his door. "Let it go! You'll never see me cry!" his mouth twisted into a snarl as he stood up straight and proud, heroic and undeterred. "Here I'll stand! And here I'll stay! Let the war rage on!" with strength gifted to him at birth, America slammed the door in the man's face and whirled, ready to tear that offending portrait to shreds.

But then he saw England, smiling that kind, gentle smile he had always loved. He saw the ash gray hair, the large eyebrows, always furrowed nowadays, smooth and even lifted in happiness. The painter did not properly capture his green eyes; those beautiful gems that would close about halfway when England laughed and swam in salty spray when he cried. The painter did nothing to capture the eternal beauty that was England. For a moment, America froze, staring at his former mentor, his fists shaking.

"My power rockets through the air into the ground," America said, a little too loudly, unable to tear his eyes away from the man who raised him. "My soul is flying through the world, all around. All my thoughts rise up and burst like a conquering blast." he tore his gaze away from the picture and turned on his heel, heading straight towards the window. "I'm never going back, the past is the past."

He could see images of England down on his knees, sobbing, hurt, broken. He was on the Revolutionary War battlefield again, and his mentor, his England, was crying. He was sobbing over a brother lost and a nation emerged. And now it was happening all over again, a broken British Empire fighting against an alliance of powers that threatened his very foundation. England's voice seemed to echo all around America, beseeching him, telling him that if he helped in this Great War, everything would be okay again.

"Let it go!" America's fist went through the image, shattering it into a million pieces. He stood there, in front of a broken window, not caring that glass shards were biting into his hand. "Let it go! And I'll rise like the rocket's glare! Let it go!" he clutched his head, trying to drive the images away. They were coming back, clearer this time, rushing towards him, showing him a desolate, broken England, an England that would come to fruition if he did not help. "Let it go! The bombs bursting in air!"

He could hear the Congress session over his radio. He could feel England begin to weaken. Russia was pulling out. France was about to fall. There was no hope left. England was going to fall, and- No! No! No! No!

The sun broke out over America, bathing him in gold. Blue eyes turned upwards and met the sky, comforting in its vasty eternity. Slowly, softly, America stood and faced the sky. He raised a hand, already beginning to heal from his injury with the broken window. And it came to him; he was strong, and so was England. England the brave. England the strong. England the unconquerable.

"Here I stand, in the light of day!" America said triumphantly, turning around and facing the portrait. It no longer offended him. No, it only invoked a heavy amount of nostalgia, and something else, something sweet and gentle that fluttered about in his chest on silver wings. He reached out to touch the portrait, to touch England's face. Perhaps it was time that he finally began truly speaking with his mentor again. Perhaps England would meet him in New York. Perhaps they could chat about days long gone. Perhaps...

No. He had a Policy of Neutrality he had to keep up. That meant siding with neither side of the Great War. They could fight until Europe was a smoldering pile of ashes and every man on that continent was mewling in the dirt. They could rope in Canada, or Mexico, or all of Asia, or all of South America, and fight until not a single man was left standing and the whole world was in ruin. The United States of America would endure. He would endure.

America pulled back his hand. "Let the war rage on." he turned away from the portrait, instead choosing to face the window. "Europe never bothered me anyway."

Behind him, the voice of United States President Woodrow Wilson came over the radio, addressing the Congress of the United States of America. _"With a profound sense of the solemn and even tragical character of the step I am taking and of the grave responsibilities which it involves, but in unhesitating obedience to what I deem my constitutional duty, I advise that the Congress declare the recent course of the Imperial German Government to be in fact nothing less than war against the Government and people of the United States…" _


	2. I'll Make a Man Out of You

Disneytalia: I'll Make a Man Out of You

**A/N: And here we are, _Mulan_'s turn to take the stage! The brutality here is reminiscent (though I admit, a little embellished) of how von Steuban treated American soldiers during the Revolutionary War. But no matter what his tactics, he was able to make a ragtag bunch into a fighting unit that could match the powerful British Empire's army.  
**

**Also on a note of legitimacy: von Steuban didn't speak perfect English, so he therefore often had a translator curse at the soldiers for him.**

**Pairings: PruAme, if stared at through the world's biggest telescope.**

**Once again, please remember that I happily take requests! **

* * *

_February 23, 1777_

_Valley Forge, Pennsylvania_

_Continental Army Camp_

The young colony was gulping, half shaking in his boots. If he was any other man, Gilbert Beilschmidt, representation of Prussia, would have laughed in his face, flicked his stupid cowlick, and left. He had no time to waste on weaklings such as this kid, this _boy_ who thought he could be a country. Ah, but he was here for a very, very good cause. If this boy survived the rigorous days, weeks, and months that Gilbert was about to slam down on him, then he would be ready. No, he would be more than ready to take on the British Empire and break away from him forever, robbing Britain of both his little brother and one of his most powerful colonies.

Red eyes swept across the land, hungrily taking in its vast emptiness. The apparently sprawling green fields and strong oak trees had long given way to the frosty bite of winter. Snow covered the ground in a down blanket of white, dead and dying trees dotted the landscape. On a summer day, this place was likely beautiful, with rolling hills and gentle grasses and flowers everywhere. It was hardly the place for a military camp, but it seemed that the Continental Army was doing what it could; many of the men, Gilbert noticed, lacked boots.

But the army was to be placed under the charge of General von Steuben, a well-respected man from Gilbert's own country. Gilbert himself would never and should never come into contact with any of these men. Here, he was a ghost, a spirit that would fly in, strengthen their future country briefly, then fly out, a memory that would soon fade. They would only catch a glimpse of him at most, or perhaps hear his signature laugh. If they were truly lucky, perhaps they would even be able to catch a sound or two from Gilbird, who was perched precariously atop his master's head. But that was it, because Gilbert was not here to train them.

Gilbert was here to train little America to go to war.

He stared up (_up_!) at the hopeful country with red eyes, drinking in the tremulous, yet determined orbs of sky blue. America had written to him just before the first snow fell, imploring him to come and bring his people to train them and train them hard. It was in his blood, his history, that his nation had the most powerful army in the world. There was little wonder why the Prussian took pride in that. He was capable, nay destined, to lend a hand in the British Empire's demise. And it would all begin with this little colony here.

"Let's get down to business," he said, smirking. He had brought with him numerous supplies, most of them looking more like torture devices than training equipment. He could see it from the way that little America, Alfred, eyed them nervously. "To defeat Britain!"

He started immediately by throwing America right into the sand-filled bag, watching as the younger crashed into it and lay there on the ground, groaning. Prussia's eyes glowed with red fire as he charged and, not expecting his attack, the American could do nothing except cry out and whine as the silver-haired nation's hard boot met with his crotch. Disgusted by the lack of strength and reflex, Gilbert stood over his new young charge and spat on his face. Alfred winced when the spittle hit him, as if burned by acid.

"Will you cry and grovel?" Gilbert asked, gripping the boy by the collar and lifting him, despite the fact that the other was considerably taller. "When you're sure to win?" he threw the boy back to the ground and stood back, watching as Alfred struggled to his feet. Mud caked his trousers and tears ran down his face, but nonetheless, Gilbert looked on proudly as Alfred managed to fight his way through the mud and the tears. But he did not show it; an army was not built on idle praise.

He strode forward and grabbed onto Alfred's arm, examining the hardened muscle from years of numerous odd jobs servicing the British Empire. He was well-built, with powerful arms from his time as a blacksmith and a mason. His legs were rather muscular as well, likely from farming or horse-feeding or whatever the fuck the British colonies did to make their legs so nice. Still though, there was plenty of work to be done, and it was with a grip so hard that Alfred winced that Gilbert yanked him down so that the sky met a blood-filled river.

"You're the weakest bitch I've ever met, but you can bet before we're through," he let go and spun around, landing a blow on Alfred's stomach. His abs were rather well-off, but it was easy to tell where a good majority of the work had to go. As Alfred doubled over, Gilbert took some time to sock the younger in his face. "Alfred I'll …" the American stumbled back, grasping his nose, blood gushing through his fingers. Gilbert took that opportunity for a harsh kick to the other's stomach, sending him sprawling to the mud. "Make a man…" he followed up with a nice, hard _stomp_ right in Alfred's nuts. "Out of you!"

He spat one last time on the mewling, coughing form before walking off to get something to eat.

* * *

_December 29, 1777_

_Valley Forge, Pennsylvania_

_Continental Army Camp_

Saratoga had been won.

But the war was not yet over.

Alfred was progressing well. He had managed to go from a whining, mewling colony to the very tiny beginnings of a future country that Gilbert envisioned. He just needed at least ten more centuries worth of training before he could be considered mediocre. He watched slightly uninterested as Alfred attacked a sand-filled bag with his musket, slamming into it with his bayonet before attacking it with his boot. His form was rather nice, his precision top-notch, and the bright flame that burned behind his blue eyes made Gilbert suddenly remember the good old days, when he was more conqueror than country.

Still, though, an army was not built on idle praise.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Gilbert didn't have to look around to know who it was. Baron Friedrich Wilhelm August Heinrich Ferdinand von Steuben grunted a little as he too began watching the colony before turning to his country, speaking in their native language so that the American wouldn't hear anything.

_"Forceful as ten oxen, and on fire within," _von Steuben remarked, gesturing to the boy, who was now in the process of focusing on three bags, three enemies, at once. _"Once he finds his center, he is sure to win."_

Gilbert sneered. _"He's a cocky, stupid, pathetic kid. And he hasn't got a clue." _Gilbert clapped his hand on von Steuben's shoulder and began leading him away, fully intent on getting as drunk as possible with the man.

As he walked away, however, he called over his shoulder to Alfred, in English, "Somehow we'll make a man out of you!"

* * *

_May 20, 1778_

_Barren Hill, Pennsylvania_

_Continental Army Camp_

Alfred was brought in, unconscious, bleeding from numerous bullet wounds. He was carted upon the shoulder of one of his men, who looked none the better. Gilbert was forced to abandon his drink and walk over to regard his charge. Alfred looked like a mess, with blood all over his uniform, his hair in tatters, and mud all over his form.

The British Empire had attempted to bag a force led by the Marquis de Lafayette by encircling it on all sides. Luckily, the Marquis knew of a different path that allowed him to slip away from the oncoming army, evading that idiot caterpillar brows another day. No doubt, Britain would be furious when he found out how easily a _Frenchman_ managed to evade his high and mighty army. Though there were few casualties, the British still managed to hit a few. It seemed that Alfred was one of them.

Gilbert spoke in his native tongue as soon as Alfred began to stir. _"Someone cuss at him for me!" _

One of his men ran over and saluted. Gilbert jerked his head at Alfred and watched with slight amusement as the poor colony was jerked awake by his man's heavily accented yelling. "Hope you enjoy your bitch time! Fuck, what are you, a pussy or a bitch?"

"Isn't this a little too much?" Alfred asked. He was immediately smacked in the face.

"GET THE FUCK UP AND RUN NOW!" Gilbert roared, causing even his own man to jump. "AND THEN COME BACK AND FUCKING SUCK IT UP!"

"I'M GOING!" Alfred squeaked, leaping up and dashing right out of the tent, leaving a large dust cloud behind. Covering his mouth, Gilbert walked over to the flap of the tent to watch the disappearing cloud, raising an eyebrow. The colony had actually managed to impress him a bit.

"He is as swift as a fleeing Italian," Gilbert remarked, rubbing his chin. He rolled his eyes as, somewhere in the distance, Alfred tripped over something, most likely air. "With all the grace of a dead possum." he snickered. "With all the strength of a raging fire. So determined that he's kinda awesome." he shook his head and walked back into the tent.

* * *

_July 4, 1778_

_Monmouth, New Jersey_

_Continental Army Camp_

"Time is racing towards us," Gilbert said proudly as he sat enjoying a beer. Von Steuben was off screaming at the soldiers again, so he was stuck with only his pet bird for company. The small chick had developed a taste for the fine drink and was currently tottering around the table, drunk off his tail feathers. "Until our win arrives. Just a few more battles, and they might survive!" he began to take a sip again, only to be interrupted by the sounds of sniffling. God, he hated sniffling.

Gilbert stood up and walked around the camp, his sensitive ears twitching a little as he continued to attempt to locate the source of the baby in the company. The noises brought him all the way to Alfred's tent and, much to his disgust, he was able to identify the heavy stench of alcohol emitting from its flap. Gilbert didn't even bother to announce his presence before he walked in.

He knew how terrible it felt to yearn to freedom, for independence. He knew of the episodes where there was nothing but guilt wracking the future nation and they would descend into depression, knowing full well that, in this vulnerable state, they wanted to go back so much but knew they couldn't. He understood the need for time and patience to slowly let go of these feelings, knowing that when it came down to it, the would-be nations would always hold a deep, fond connection to their caretaker.

But war was war and there was no time for any sort of patience.

So that was why, when he found Alfred, vulnerable as the day he first began training the boy, clutching to a small portrait of Britain, he did not show pity. He did not show anger. He didn't even show disappointment.

"You're unsuited for the rage of war," Gilbert said emotionlessly. Blue eyes, brighter than the sun and moon themselves, flicked up at him, silently begging him to stop speaking. But war was harsh and Gilbert knew he had to be harsh if they were to win. "So pack up, go home, you're through." he turned away, silently sensing the American's pleas for him not to go, not to give up on him so soon. Gilbert only shook his head. "How could I make a man out of you?"

He smiled inwardly when he heard the sound of a portrait being smashed under someone's foot.

* * *

_September 19, 1778_

_Valley Forge, Pennsylvania_

_Continental Army Camp_

Battle was coming. Gilbert could almost taste it. Things were beginning to go on-edge as of late, and the soldiers of the training camp were growing impatient. They could sense the beginning of the end. It was just over that last crest, beyond that final ravine. They craved it, hungered for it. They knew that independence, that freedom was near, and all they had to do was reach out and touch it. Gilbert and von Steuben often spoke of their progress over a nightly flagon, but they never spoke in English.

An army was never built on idle praise.

That was why, as Gilbert sat atop his horse during Alfred's fifty kilometer run, he had to refrain from screaming encouragements at the boy. Alfred was doing well, he was doing very well. He was now easily able to rip his way through a good amount of opponents with his bayonet, and his shooting had become smoother and sharper. With both France and Spain now lending their assistance, there was little to do now except sit and wait for British defeat.

Under Gilbert's tutelage, the young colony was able to run faster and farther each passing day. Fifty kilometers, once a huge burden, seemed almost nothing now. Gilbert would sometimes return from a fine meal with the army to see Alfred lifting extremely heavy weights like they were mere feathers on his shoulders.

"You must be swift as a coursing river," Gilbert instructed in their final hand-to-hand combat of the day. Alfred's blows were quick; more than once, Gilbert just barely missed getting injured, but they were not quick enough. "With all the force of a great typhoon." he ducked, barely missing a kick. He swung his leg forward, only to have it caught. But when Alfred attempted to punch him, Gilbert blocked the blow and managed to land a blow on the American's stomach, loosening the hold on his leg. "With all the strength of a raging fire." Gilbert, leaped back to avoid another kick from those powerful legs. He went in for the punch, only for Alfred to side-step and counterattack with his fist, which Gilbert barely dodged once again. "Mysterious as the dark side of the mo-OW!" Gilbert had gone in for an attempted side-attack, only for Alfred to reach forward, grab his leg, and twist it so the Prussian was slammed to the ground.

Gilbert laid there for a few long moments, defeated and stunned. He had done it. The boy had done it. There was nothing left for him to teach him. Getting shakily to his feet, Gilbert grasped Alfred's hand and pulled the boy into a firm hug, patting his bruised back.

"Good job… United States of America."

* * *

_October 19, 1781_

_Yorktown, Virginia_

_Siege of Yorktown_

The bullets whizzed past him, as if in slow motion, and he dodged them all. His boots pounded on the earth as he charged towards the lone figure in red. He skidded to a stop in front of the green-eyed man, his musket locked squarely upon the Briton's chest.

"Hey, Britain."

_Be a man._

_You must be swift as a coursing river._

He felt unbroken, uncluttered, alive. He felt freer now than he ever did when he was trapped in his own home. He could feel the wind singing in his chest, the river rushing through his veins, the earth beneath his feet. Everything and nothing was happening all at once, and nothing, not even the sharp tang of blood in his mouth could dim what he could feel this day.

"All I want is my freedom."

He could see the flash behind those green eyes: that of anger, of disbelief, of denial, and… of pride? Of love? What was he seeing? This was Britain, this was the British Empire. The sun never set on him. He was all powerful, he could have anything he wanted. And yet, all he could see was the horrible sadness upon the other man's feature, mixed with the pride of an empire long ago isolated with his own loneliness.

_Be a man._

_With all the force of a great typhoon._

It was raining. When head it begun raining? Those thoughts soon vanished from his mind as soon as his sky blue eyes met the poisonous green ones of the man who had once been his caretaker, his big brother, his friend.

"I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother."

_Be a man. _

_With all the strength of a raging fire. _

Did he hate those words? Possibly. No, undoubtedly. There was no doubt that the man before him hated those words. He stood there, swathed in crimson red, holding musket out, but yet to fire. He could see the way the gun trembled in his grasp, the way the rain transformed his hair into a swirling whorl of spun gold. His eyes, bright like emeralds, were wet. His mouth was twisted in a horrifying grimace of anger and sadness.

_Mysterious as _

"From now on…"

_the dark side of_

"Consider me…"

_the moon. _

"INDEPENDENT!"

_BOOM!_


End file.
